


The Heart's Plague

by aactionjohnny



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, History, Love, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, The Black Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-11 15:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20155711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: Perhaps he has loved him for a long time.Aziraphale and Crowley sort out their relationship after the near-apocalypse, and they reflect on a distinct memory they share of the past. The tragic devastation of the Black Death, and how the horror brought them closer together. They look to their mortal friends as a model for dating, but find that it is impossible to compare their situations.





	1. Chapter 1

_ 1349. _

He came in looking, for the first time, as if he were actually doing the work of the devil. There were no shining, freckled skin or flowing black robes, no perfectly braided hair tossed over one slender shoulder. But still, Aziraphale recognized him by presence alone. Standing in the doorway of the deteriorating wattle-and-daub hut, wearing a horrid, rough leather mask with a massive pointed beak, and a thick black cloak that billowed in the sour wind. 

Beside him the sick woman moans. He cannot save her. He can only offer her platitudes and gentle comfort.

“...I suppose this is all your doing, then,” Aziraphale accuses, looking pained as he runs an angelic hand over the woman’s rotten skin. “All this death.”

“Hardly,” Crowley protests, stalking over to the bedside, hovering like a vulture hungry for decaying flesh. “The rats, yes. That’s us. But we didn’t tell them what to do.”

“Of  _ course _ rats come from Hell,” he says, sighing.

“Aren’t you supposed to love all living things?” Crowley challenges, pulling up a wooden stool and sitting on the other side of the dying woman. He grabs his terrible mask and pulls it from off his head, setting it down on the floor beside him. There it is, the honey-red hair that cascades down his back, and glowing yellow eyes that pierce him.

“Well, yes, but... _ rats _ .” He scrunches up his nose.

“I guess maybe it’s out fault. Transitively. We created the conditions from which the sickness came. But it wasn’t my _ idea _ , I swear.”

“I should hope not. I thought better of you.”

“I am a demon. Aziraphale. It’s alright if you suspect me of evil. Kind of my thing.”

“You have never done any harm that I’ve seen,” he says, resolute and with an air of finality, as if he has decided that no, Crowley cannot be truly evil. He was once an angel, after all. There is more good in him than there is bad. There has to be, otherwise it would make Aziraphale quite terrible at his job. It would make it ten times more a sin for him to want to smile whenever he shows up out of nowhere like this.

“She’s not gonna make it, Angel,” Crowley says, appraising the groaning woman, so feverish and sick she pays no mind to their odd conversation. “Why not just put her out of her misery?”

“I-- I can’t do that!”

“Would be a lot more merciful, in my opinion.”

“Well I’m not about to trust the opinion of a _ demon _ .”

“Suit yourself.” Crowley clears his throat and reaches for his mask again.

“Oh...you’re leaving?” Aziraphale asks, hating how it sounds like a desperate whimper.

“No, no. Just putting on the proper uniform.” He pulls the mask back down over his head, and then presses a gloved hand to the dying woman’s cheek. His touch seems so very gentle and kind, and Aziraphale is so transfixed by the tenderness that he does not have the chance to stop him from draining the remaining life from her body. She looks at peace, finally. Her eyes closed softly and not in strain, her fingers relaxed, laying on her belly, now still, no heavy breathing… “There.”

Aziraphale pulls the threadbare blanket at her feet all the way up over her head. Another one gone, but this one did not have to suffer until the very end.

“So is that what you do here, Aziraphale? Sit at people’s bedsides and talk?”

“It’s a bit more than that. There are some people who can still be saved! But God has given us strict orders not to  _ too _ miraculously bring people back from the edge of death.”

“Isn’t it nice how open their instructions are to interpretation? My lot just sends me off, telling me to cause ‘trouble.’” Crowley stands up, keeping his mask on, holding out a hand for Aziraphale to take, and he bids him to stand and leave the hut.

The village is tragic and muddy. It is quiet save for the wailing of the near-dead.

“I could do it to all of them, Angel. If you want. They won’t suffer anymore.”

“I...I don’t know, Crowley. I don’t feel very good about it.”

“Very well then.” He lets go of his hand and looks about, that massive beak cutting through the rancid air like a dull sword. “Got any plans? Thinking of skipping out.”

“I...was going to stay here and help.”

“Angel…” He pulls off his mask again and tucks it beneath his arm. He places his free hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “These people can’t be helped anymore. Isn’t there somewhere else you could do more good?”

“Are you...encouraging me to do good deeds?”

“Oh, no, not at all. I’m encouraging you to come get sloshed on mead with me.”

“I--” He stammers, but he smiles, tight-lipped and trying not to seem too gleeful. The last time they drank together was quite delightful indeed. “Fine. Yes.”

“Glad to hear it.”

_ 2019. _

He stands before the glass display case, gazing up at the finely restored plague doctor mask, all clean and new-looking, its stray fibers trimmed and its leather pieces buffed. It is just as he remembers it, though now, it does not bring him any such terror. One should not look fondly back on a time of disease and death, and yet, above all the bad memories, he more strongly thinks of the time when, by candlelight, they shared drinks until the wee hours of the morning.

“I should try that look again, Angel. D’you think they’d notice if I stole it?” Crowley asks, joining him at the display. He tends to meander, to wander the exhibits, on these little museum trips of theirs. A snake indeed, slithering about with no discernable goal.

“Well, I do think people would notice a man sauntering around with a bird mask on his head,” Aziraphale parries.

“Not any stranger than a man in a bowtie.”

“People still wear bowties! You just don’t see them.”

“Oh, I see one every day. But he’s not exactly a _ person _ , so much as--”

“Shh. We are in public, in a very quiet place.”

Crowley grins, backing away, heading for the next room, the next lesson in history that they’ve lived through and can therefore debunk as incorrect.

They’re meant to meet the young people soon, Anathema and Newton, the lovebirds. Aziraphale is charmed by them, by their giddiness, by their dynamic. They’ve all four become fast friends, bonded together by the near-end of the world, all sharing an understanding that no one else could really have. Not even Adam and his friends, who are still so young, it will be years until they can fully grasp the gravity of what’s happened. When they are older, and have lived, and have each their own little world…

He’s stolen out of his reverie by Crowley, who has returned to drag him into the next gallery lest they be late. He hooks their arms together, pulling him like an impatient child, and such public affection makes him giddy. Of late it has been so much easier to touch him. Now that they’re free, for the time being. Now that they know they won’t burst into flames. They can link arms, and hold hands at dinner, and Crowley can fall asleep on his shoulder, and everything remains at peace and in place…

Anathema called it a ‘double-date,’ and Aziraphale had laughed lightly into the phone at the invitation, thinking nothing of it. It would not be the first time people had assumed they were together in that sense. It is a very human thing, to hold the hand of a lover, to spend all hours with them, to dine and visit shops and museums. But surely this is something that cannot be explained in human terms. At least so far as, when he tries to say it out loud, he chokes. Best leave it be and let the joy go on, and not ruin it with questions.

They meet the young couple out on the square. She is dressed in a long black gown adorned with a stylized pattern of lily-of-the-valley. Newton, in his blue sweater and trendy trousers. They are an absolutely delightful picture of young lovers, standing close, their toes pointed at one another, gazing amorously. He supposes it makes sense, how people see him and Crowley. Though the glances are not always kind. The words are sometimes harsh, and he is thankful to be partnered with someone as threatening as Crowley to keep the unkind people away.

“Aziraphale! Crowley!” she says, chipper but heavy in the throat, and she approaches them and gives them both a kiss on the cheek. Newton waves, one hand still stuffed in his pocket. “We got a reservation for lunch. We really wanted to try the Ritz, you talk about it so much. Do you think we’re underdressed?” She holds the folds of her skirts and spreads the fabric some.

“Not at all. They like us there, anyway,” Aziraphale says.

And so they begin their walk, slow and meandering despite their time table. It is so easy to dally when in love. Aziraphale, secretly and silently, has been allowing himself to call it that. He repeats it in his own head and it thrills him:  _ I am in love with Crowley _ . It sounds less and less odd the more he thinks on it. For now, it will make him happy in secrecy, adopting the mortal words for how he feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale youve been in a relationship for 6000 years you dumb idiot
> 
> i couldnt stop myself from writing more GO fic, that show got me GOOD


	2. Chapter 2

Their usual hostess leads them to their table, two extra chairs set out, and it almost looks unusual to Crowley, so used to sharing it with Aziraphale alone. The waitstaff, too, seem confused at who these two young people are. But they dare not ask. They simply smile and pour their water, taking their drink orders as if they will ever ask for anything but either champagne or red wine.

“I’ll have a vodka soda,” Anathema says. Crowley raises his brow. She seems like more of a Moscato kind of girl, but what does he know? 

“Um...same,” Newton says, looking bashfully at his menu. Is that how all men act when they’re brand-new in love? Sheepish and quiet? He wouldn’t know. Why, he’s been—  _ yes, alright, _ he’s been in love for centuries and he was never quite that shy. Not like a demon to be shy. Not like a demon to love someone, either, but here they are.

And he’s been trying to say it for so long, dispensing with the words themselves, feeling as though it’s too late to suddenly get his head out of his ass and tell him flat-out. The moment has passed. If he couldn’t say it at the end of the world, if he couldn’t say it to get him to run away into the stars, how will he ever? There could be no greater suffering than being  _ without _ him, so he accepts his fate, floundering in adoration and trying to say it without saying it. Like a cowardly demon, if there is such a thing. 

He shouldn’t be afraid of anything. But when he heard Aziraphale say,  _ I don’t even like you _ , the prospect of it seemed to terrify him. The despair he would feel, should he ever mean it…

“Crowley? Dear?” Aziraphale says, placing one finely-manicured hand on his. “Are you alright?”

Anathema laughs behind her glass of vodka and soda. 

“M’fine,” he says, frowning at her. “What did I miss?”

“I was telling you about Adam and the other kids,” she says, setting down her glass and reaching her hand out, settling it on Newton’s arm. “They miss you. You should come out some time.”

“Oh I’m not sure how his parents would feel about that,” Aziraphale says, pressing his fingers to his lips. “Two strange men who certainly had something to do with him being severely grounded…”

“Mr. and Mrs. Young are actually  _ very  _ open-minded!” Newton says, much to Anathema’s girlish snorting. 

“Wh—“ Crowley clears his throat. “What in Hell is taking so long with our waiter?” He stands, turning toward the bar to saunter over, threatening and eager to escape the table for a moment. He should have known this was a bad idea. Anathema, she’s darling really, and too smart for the world, but she’s going to get him into trouble. He can see it in her eyes, how she wants to play matchmaker and go about some childish game. Maybe he and Aziraphale will end up in a closet together after spinning an empty bottle round the floor.  _ Stupid. _

He leans on the bar and snaps his fingers, beckoning the bartender. She finishes drying a wine glass and then greets him with a smile.

“Always good to see you, Mr. Crowley,” she says, reaching for a shot glass and filling it with whiskey. “On the house. Even though you lost me money today.”

“Begpardon?” Despite his confusion, he downs the shot.

“We’ve got a pool going. When you’re going to propose. But then you went and brought along your friends and I figured, no, he’s not tacky enough to do that on a double date—“

“Prop—what!?” He slams down the shot glass as if it’s burst into flames. “Have you been drinking?”

“Only a bit. You know what I mean though. Pop the question. Make an honest man out of him. You’ve been coming here together for  _ years. _ This has to be the place.”

“It’s not— like that. We’re not like that. Together. Why would you think we were? And...and where the hell is our waiter?”

She just grins and rinses the shot glass, putting it neatly away with its brothers and sisters.

“An odd question for a man who doesn’t eat much. You usually just watch Mr. Fell eat instead.”

“...you won’t be getting a very good tip tonight, young lady.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m just saying...the only person I go to fancy restaurants with, all dressed up, and watch them slowly eat cake, that’s my girlfriend. You don’t have to  _ lie _ , Mr. Crowley.”

He sneers at her, but still he slips her a few pounds as a tip.

“Send our waiter,” he says, meaning to sound threatening, but he knows he just comes off as teasing, because she giggles and waves him away.

When he turns back to the table, he sees Aziraphale, chin in his hand, gazing dreamily at the happy young couple. He has spent years convincing himself that his Angel just loves _ love _ , in all its forms, and will look at those in love as if they are the picture of God’s good grace. Not that, maybe, when he sees two foolish humans kiss, he wishes he could do the same. Not that, when he watches a romantic movie, he wonders if it’s anything like the real thing…

_ 1349. _

He leads him to a rundown tavern, a place where he ought to be bringing wayward souls for temptation. But they’re all too busy dying to be bothered to sin, and they’ve left behind all their drink. Barrels of it, abandoned. How sad. Really, he’s just helping Aziraphale do one of his good deeds, not letting it go to waste.

“Must you continue to wear that?” Aziraphale asks, tilting his head at the monstrous mask and its terrible beak. “You look--”

“Like a demon?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips, posing as if for a painted portrait. “You really don’t like it? Thought it made me look mysterious.  _ Dangerous _ .”

“Well--” Aziraphale looks dolefully at the muddy grass beneath their feet. “I suppose. If that’s what you were going for.”

Once inside, though, he does remove the headgear, placing it on one of the long table of rotting oak, nicked with the shadow of so many goblets slammed down in victory or lament. He cracks open one of the barrels and pours them each a hefty serving of thick, dark wine, made no doubt from whatever still manages to grow in this dreadful place.

He grins, watching how fervently Aziraphale gulps down his drink, as if desperate to forget all of the decay and illness he’s seen. It must be hard, being an angel. Trying to do good when the world is just so awful. The memories of his time as a do-gooder fade faster by the day, and he can hardly remember…

“That woman that you...you know,” Aziraphale makes a vague gesture over his eyes, signifying death. “She had been crying out for her husband for hours before that.”

“And where was he?”

“Dead already. Months ago.” Aziraphale takes another, pensive sip. Crowley knows it doesn’t taste very good, and yet they both down it like it’s fresh, clean water. “It’s...unfair.” His last word is a whisper, as if he’s frightened someone might hear. The almighty, most likely.

“Unfair?” Crowley asks, goading and intrigued. It seems to him, each time they meet, that he is a little closer to getting Aziraphale to fall. To join him. To stand beside him…

“If people are in love, I think they should both be allowed to be well. And generally...alive. Is that absurd?”

Crowley’s lips part. He had expected something a little more rehearsed, a little more holy-sounding. But it sounds so raw, coming from him. So sincere and so sad.

“It’s...no. It’s not absurd,” he says, muffling his honesty with another healthy gulp. “But then wouldn’t lots of people be too healthy? Humans are in love all the time.”

“No, many of them are just...lonesome. _ Infatuated _ . I’m sure you know all about that.”

“Lust isn’t really my wheelhouse, temptation-wise.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Crowley nearly spits out his drink, so taken aback by that remark, floundering to know just what he meant by it, terrified to ask.

“But this woman was really in love?” Crowley asks.

“She _ adored _ him. They had three lovely little girls. All sent away to a convent to stay safe.” His voice sounds shaky, sorrowful. He leans an elbow on the long table and rests his cheek in his hand. There is an aching in Crowley’s chest that feels old and long-forgotten. Something he is not supposed to have anymore, but if he could, he would cling to it like a raft in a thunderous storm out to sea...He paws at the silver chain that hangs heavy against his chest, as if trying to claw through to a heart he does not have.

“Yeah. Well.” He offers no other response, but he snatches Aziraphale’s cup and goes to refill them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two things:
> 
> -we are All that sassy lesbian bartender i think
> 
> -aziraphale "accidentally" hitting on crowley and making him flustered is a delight
> 
> annnnnyway i'm deliriously tired because life has been Rough(tm) on me over the past day or so but this made me feel a little better


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extreme Fluff

It’s a slow, meandering walk back to the bookshop. Aziraphale leads the way, turning his head now and then to make sure that Newton and Anathema haven’t lost their way, too busy holding hands and letting their mooning over one another threaten to lead them into traffic. Crowley walks beside him, a snide but chipper grin on his face.

“Lovebirds,” he says under his breath.

“Oh, it’s quite sweet, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t answer, and it’s agonizing. Surely Crowley thinks that human puppy love is an utter waste of time and energy, and if Anathema wandered into the street in a lovelorn daze, he’d not hesitate to hit her with his car. Again.

“I don’t want to impose,” Anathema says as Aziraphale unlocks the front door to the bookshop. “Or...intrude.”

“Nonsense, dear girl,” Aziraphale assures her, holding open the door for everyone else to go in. “All this wine is wasted on just the two of us.” It is a lie, and he wonders if her strange magic can see right through him. She is most frightening, in that way. They are both so unused to humans who are anything but plain and simple beings. But Anathema, she works in ways beyond the mortal world. Fascinating.

“It’s lovely,” she comments, turning in a circle as she drinks in the homely sight. “I’d love to take a look around sometime. Maybe buy something.”

“Mm,” he mumbles, opening the cupboard, full of vintage reds, all organized by year and type. “Crowley dear, what do you think? A zinfandel?”

Crowley is facing away, placing a record on the turntable, keeping his face hidden and safe from Aziraphale reading it. If he blushes, just as  _ he _ does, when he’s called  _ Angel,  _ he can’t possibly know. 

“Up to you,” he answers, setting down the needle. 

They settle on a cabernet from 1976. They sit in a vague circle on the back of the shop, Crowley and Aziraphale on the couch, the young lovebirds on the floor in a bed of pillows and carpet. They drink, too quickly, swapping stories, refilling their glasses before they are even empty. It’s nice, Aziraphale thinks, to be able to entertain. As much as he enjoys having Crowley all to himself, to have guests, it makes him feel as if they are a proper couple. Wiser than their youthful friends, but in a way, more foolish. 

“Anathema,” Newton says, adoring and slow. “Show them that thing. What you can do.”

“I can do a lot of things,” she teases. He laughs loud, a flustered snort. 

“I mean when you look at people, and they—“

“Oh, their auras? You know, I never thought to really look at theirs.” She turns to look at the two of them, sitting on the couch. “Hang on, I’m...it’s harder after drinking.”

She stares a moment, tilting her head, biting her bottom lip, and Aziraphale swears he sees her cheeks turn a deeper red. 

“Oh, well, that makes sense,” she says, grinning.

“What?” Crowley asks, his drunk impatience very obvious.

“Well, they’re the same color. Like you share it. It’s a light golden-yellow and it’s almost blinding. But that’s normal.”

“For non-humans?” Aziraphale asks.

“No no, for people in love.”

Her words hang heavy in the room, settling on them like a hot, hot fog. He opens his mouth, nothing to say that could possibly help, and then he sighs.

“Dear girl— how, er,  _ presumptuous—“ _

“Don’t tell me you haven’t  _ said _ it yet—“

“Why would I—“

“We don’t really have to,” Crowley slurs, leaning back into the couch cushions, tossing his arms over the back, one of them placed precariously near Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Fuck’s sake, I was ready to leave the planet with him.”

There is no one else in the universe with this power over Aziraphale, the unique ability to ease his every fiber, to make him feel so light as air with just a simple off-hand comment. Always he surprises him, his sweet demon, so casually making him melt. 

“So you…” Aziraphale trails off, collecting his hands in his lap.

“Shut  _ up _ , Angel,” Crowley says, suddenly sheepish, covering his eyes with one thin hand, refusing to make eye contact. 

“Crowley—“

“Don’t make me say it. I’m a demon, I’ll probably burst into flames.”

Aziraphale looks back at Anathema and Newton, his gaze desperate. She just laughs.

“You two are awful at this,” she says. “Have you really not like…” She takes a sip of her wine. “...realized you’re a couple?”

“I suppose, when you look at it from the outside,” Aziraphale begins, timid, trying not to look at Crowley, “it might seem that way. But—“

“But  _ what _ , Angel?” Crowley asks, exasperated, pulling off his sunglasses and carelessly depositing them on the coffee table. “Listen…” He downs his wine, and pours himself another, before he can even swallow. “It’s stupid. Just...date me. It’s twenty-fucking-nineteen, right?”

“Crowley, you’re drunk.”

“Yes!” he says, pointing at him with his wine glass. “Doesn’t mean I’m lying!”

“I—“ Aziraphale, speechless, follows suit and gulps down his wine as well. “Oh dear…”

Newton snorts, erupting into laughter, leaning back until he’s laying on the floor. Anathema giggles, covering her wine-stained mouth, her drunken giddiness quite sweet, but Aziraphale is too flustered to join in. All he can do is give Crowley an honest glance, his eyes pleading with him, one hand reaching out slowly to place upon his knee.

“Nothing has t’change, Angel,” Crowley says, softer than ever, sliding a hand over Aziraphale’s cheek, holding him gently by the back of the neck, long fingers in the soft hair of his nape. “If you really think about it, we’ve been together a long time already. Just...making it official.”

“Official...yes,” he says, a smile fluttering onto his lips. “Officially...my  _ boyfriend _ , like Uriel said.”

“They said  _ what!?” _ Crowley gasps, his mouth wide, his eyes amused. Just as when they met.

“I do think they meant it rather snidely.”

“How th’fuck did  _ everyone _ know before we did?”

Anathema lays her head in her hand.

“It’s good to know that living for centuries doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be smart,” she says. She looks at the old clock, still miraculously ticking after hundreds of years on the wall. “We should catch the bus.”

“Mhm,” Newton agrees, his head lolling to the side as he stares at her in a drunken, amorous haze. Aziraphale knows, from centuries of human study, what they are in such a rush to get home for. He curls his toes in his shoes.

They bid them goodbye, sloppy drunken embraces and brief kisses on the cheek. Soon, they are alone, across the room from one another. The space seems infinite as he approaches, slipping his arms beneath Crowley’s, laying his head in the curve of his neck. He breathes in the familiar scent, crisply burned wood, with a clean and warm cologne. 

“I feel so foolish,” he mumbles into his shoulder. “I suppose we have a lot to talk about.”

“Not now, Angel,” he coos, so gentle, so quiet. He tilts his head into Aziraphale’s hair. “We’ve never talked about it before. What’s a little longer, eh?”

He laughs lightly, nodding. They do, after all, have an eternity. And it will be so much easier to make sense of it all once they’re sober.

_ 1349. _

The more they drink, the closer they become. They drift until they are sitting back to back upon the floor, just beneath the spout of a barrel of wine, and they talk and talk and talk, and it is so easy.

“I s’pose your lot could cure the plague,” Crowley suggests.

“We’ve been told not to.”

“...why?”

“It’s...a trial, for the humans. This disease.”

“Ah, like your flood.”

“Now, that was not my idea.”

Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale can feel it against his back. He shivers.

“D’you ever think about...being like ‘ _ fuck it,’ _ and just fucking off and acting more like a mortal? All this demon business can be so exhausting, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be doing  _ good _ all the time.”

“I...no, I haven’t thought about it.”

“I mean, if you think about it, s’what we’re already doing. Drinking. Being friends.”

“Friends?”

“Oh, don’t act all shocked.”

“I— I ought to be shocked, shouldn’t I?” Aziraphale sips his wine and turns his head to the side. Out of the corner of his eye he can see miraculous, flaming red hair. “I ought not to like you very much. But here we are.”

“...I like you, too.”

He grins, gleeful and childish. Suddenly, he’s left with no support for his back, and he catches himself on one outstretched hand. Crowley turns on the floor, his upper body facing him. 

“...very much,” Crowley goes on, his voice very quiet, his yellow eyes with their warmest glow.

In the drunken silence, they smile at one another. He’s unsure how long it lasts, but the joy feels infinite and pure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been Hard™️ of late so I...needed the wholesome content of these two dummies being dumb. I’d love some feedback, I’m emotionally exhausted and running on fumes. But this made me smile.
> 
> Find me on twit @peebnutbutter

**Author's Note:**

> listen idk
> 
> this might turn into something longer i'm just sort of hhhghnnjhhhh and also the idea of crowley in a plague doctor mask got me shook


End file.
